


Rain on My Masquerade

by ashborne



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4687283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashborne/pseuds/ashborne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rebellion never happened, the 4th Quarter Quell is just around the corner, and the only thing Charaide has in her arsenal is her acting. "She looks, but doesn't see. No one has for a long time. My mask is too perfect for that." Tributes are all OCs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: don't own anything but the characters.

I sit silently as my mother’s hands ghost over my hair, nimble fingers untangling kinks and knots with practiced ease. My back is slack, and I’m hunching a little, but inside, my heart hammers a too familiar rhythm. It rings loud and clear in my ears, blood thundering like a stampede through my veins. I try to lose the anxiety, but my efforts are futile. After all, is there anyone in District 7 that isn’t afraid of the Reaping? Even my sister, who isn’t going to be 12 in a couple of years, is scared stiff today. She thinks she can fool me with her false bravado, but emotion is something that no one can ever hide from me.

Besides, I know her fear well.

“There you go.” – my mother says gently from behind me. “You look beautiful, Charaide.”

I turn and give her a grateful look. “Thanks a bunch, Mom. You know how I hate prepping.”

She nods, eyes sad. “I know it’s a stressful day, darling. Are you quite sure that you’re okay?”

“Of course, Mom. Don’t worry.” – I say, even though I am more jittery than I have ever been in my life. I have been through 2 reapings already, but it’s not every year that you have to sign up for a Quarter Quell.

Mother nods again. She looks, but doesn’t see. No one has for a long time.

My mask is too perfect for that.

“I laid out a dress for you on your bed. It’s your favourite.” – she tells me with the barest hint of amusement. I smile softly in return, the joke not lost on me. The pale green number that I know lies in my room is my favourite dress because it’s the only one I own.

Starlett bursts out of the kitchen then, hands clutching something so tightly her knuckles gleam bone-white in the early morning light. I glance up, startled. Her small feet are a blur under her too-long skirts, and before I can get my bearings, she has rammed head-on into me, knocking me to the ground. I prop myself up on my elbows, grinning.

“Slow down, Star, you’re like a tornado ‘round here. Now I’m officially sore.”

Starlett looks sheepish when she sticks her palms out towards me. I stare curiously at the dry flower crown that lies innocuously in her hands. The small petals are crushed at the edges from her death grip.

“It’s heather. Pink for luck.” – she mumbles quietly under her breath.

My heart gives a painful jerk, and I feel my eyes water. I will the tears to go away as I take the crown and place it experimentally on my head.

“It’s gorgeous, Star. Really. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

She beams, and my heart lurches again as I am reminded of how rare it is to see her look this happy. I push myself off the floor and pull her into a tight hug.

“I love you, Star. No matter what happens, I will always love you.”

Starlett snuggles close into me, face buried into my neck. I press a light kiss on the top of her hair and break the embrace to hold her at arms length. Her eyes shine ever so slightly. Then I twist her nose and watch as her mouth contorts in protest.

“Now get going; I have a dress to get myself into.”

* * *

 

My mother goes first, Starlett’s hand grasped like a lifeline in hers. Father bids his goodbyes soon after. He doesn’t say anything, but the lingering look that he gives me before he walks out the door holds more meaning than words ever could. It’s something of a tradition, leaving me behind like this. I’ve always been a bit on the independent side, and they think I would appreciate a few seconds alone to get my act together.

It always is anyway, so the practice is meaningless, but the reprieve is not completely unwelcome.

With a despondent sigh, I begin my slow trek towards the town square. The path beneath my feet is long and meandering, and fine layers of dust settle comfortably on the soft brown earth. I know that this will transition abruptly into con-crete once I reach the wealthier sections of the District, where the streets are lined with expansive brick villas and there are lavish shops around each and eve-ry corner. Our own house, a small wooden cottage so close to the forest it might as well be part of the nature, lies at the very border of District 7, typically an area for the poor and the penniless. There are only a few families that live here, seeing as District 7 is particularly well off compared to, say, 12, but those who do fit their title of the lowest class of society like a well-worn glove.

My family is a primary example.

The recent years had been kind to District 7, and women in the woods had soon turned into something of a novelty, many opting for carving knives instead of heavy axes. President Snow himself had been known to note the increased precision in the detailing on custom-made furniture, and everyone knows that the man isn’t an easy customer. With the situation benefitting both sides, it was only logical for women to almost completely retire from the dangerous profession. Nowadays, chopping down trees is considered a task left primarily for men.

Or truly desperate women, in the case of my mother and me.

I was practically born in the wild comfort of the forest, its greenery a constant backdrop in the earliest memories of my childhood. I had been a restless whirl-wind of a kid back in the days. Growing up, my knees would always bear marks of my latest escapade, and while most healed, some never faded, becoming per-manent additions to my already intriguing patchwork of skin. One such scar splits my back neatly in two, a lasting remnant of the time I fell from a branch and landed on a particularly thorny bush.

Mother always did say that I was climbing even before I learned how to crawl.

School is not something I look forward to, seeing as I don’t talk to anyone there apart from Starlett. Work, however, is the highlight of my day. The unforgiving duties of a Lumberjack have never intimidated me, not even in practice. Other people would call it a curse, a tragic load on the hands of a 9-year-old. Personally, I have never viewed it as anything less than a blessing in disguise.

Because really, how many other people get to do what they actually want to do in these god-forsaken Districts?

Both my parents work in the forest with me, and while father and I are content with the job, mother is not. Her stature is too small to accommodate the harsh nature of the tasks, and while I, too, suffer from a severe height deficit, I have been performing hazardous feats not unlike the ones required in my line of work since I was still in diapers. By the time I was my current age, the ritual had be-come second nature. To my mother, however, our routine is akin to torture.

She never complains, never shows distress in the face of hardship, but I’ve seen the pain in her eyes too many times to disregard its entire existence.

There is nothing I can do to lessen her agony except maybe takeover once she is no longer capable of continuing, but the feeling of uselessness is one that rips my heart in two every time her eyes glisten with unshed tears.

My musings are cut short abruptly as sunshine breaks in beams through the foliage overhead, and I squint, the bright light a glaring white in my peripheral vision. My pitch black eyes were the direct result of an inadvertent genetic mutation, and as a consequence, I have had problems with the sun since day one. Luckily, it only ever bothered me when I was on my way to school, and I was given a respite once I started my daily work in the forest.

To this day, I still wonder if the Capitol had had a hand in my misfortune.

Without warning the sky clears, and my feet stumble upon the tiles of the main road. With a jolt, my internal countdown commences. 100 steps, 99 steps, 98 steps… The path to the town square is short, but in my head, it is endless.

I take several shuddering breaths to try and calm my nerves. With each excruciating exhale, I feel my features school themselves into a mask of my own choosing. The semblance I wear now is carefully blank except for a hint of austerity in the downwards tilt of my brows.

Even the most attentive of people won’t notice the fear beneath the surface.

The sounds around me intensify, and I wordlessly line up after two chattering blondes to get my finger pricked. Blood identification is an intensely complex process the likes of me will never understand.

The Capitol has made sure of that.

Soon, my blood is taken, and then I am ushered to a roped off area where 14-years-old stand and fidget anxiously. Someone pushes me from behind in their hurry, and the flower crown on my head tumbles feebly to the ground. It is al-ready trampled by the time I bend down to pick it up.

There’s a painful twinge in my chest, and my heart sinks like an invisible anchor.

Suddenly, the atmosphere feels thick with desperation, the too-palpable fear making it hard to breathe. My eyes roam, unbidden, until they rest on the hulking figure of my father. Even from a distance, he stands out like a sore thumb, a giant among the masses milling frantically about. Next to him, Starlett hangs limply from mother’s arm, auburn locks frizzy in the humid air.

Both of us are short, like our mother, but where I am square, she is soft, a paper-doll weighed down by the burdens of a brutal, vicious world. She will not survive the Games if she is ever thrown into one.

In what I know looks like an off-handed manner, I direct my attention to the stage erected up front, fighting the heavy pressure behind my eyes. Johanna Mason, the victor of the 71st Hunger Games, is picking her nails in one of the chairs. She looks bored, disinterested even, but I know she is an excellent actress.

There is much I could learn from her.

The clock strikes two, and everyone falls silent. The only sound anyone can hear for miles is the mechanical whirring of the camera crew. Mayor Greensley steps up to the podium and begins the long, dreadful speech about the Games’ history. I tune him out expertly, instead surveying the two glass balls on either side of him.

One holds 15 slips bearing my name.

The mayor finishes soon enough, and Lacey Woods skips merrily up to take his place. Her hair is a new shade of green this year, one that’s somewhere between lime and viridian, and her wide, beaming smile is accentuated by bright purple lipstick. It makes her skin look pale, like paper stretched too thin over the planes of her face.

“Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour!” – laughs Lacey, and then proceeds to explain how much of an honour it is to be here again. There’s an authentic gleam to her otherwise phony act, and I can’t shake off the feeling that she finds the whole situation highly amusing.

After a few minutes of rambling gaily, Lacey straightens up and says: “Now, this is the fourth Quarter Quell, so as is customary, special regulations will be enforced. While I know that you all are familiar with this year’s change of rules, I would still like to repeat it again: to remind us that no one can ever escape the Capitol’s punishment, the 100th annual Hunger Games will be banned from having any volunteers.”

The rule change isn’t really news, seeing as it has been announced a few months prior, but there are still a few sharp intakes of breath. There had been more sur-prised gasps back when the information was first aired, but to District 7, this was not something to be worried about.

The wealthier districts, on the other hand, had probably remained sullen for weeks.

“Well, let’s hurry up along now, shall we?” – grins Lacey giddily. “Ladies first!”

She reaches her hand into the ball on her right and moves it around experimentally, as if waiting for a particular slip to make its presence known. Finally, she fishes one out, unfolds it, and reads:

“Our female tribute this year is… Leare Crooke!”

Inside, my heart grows wings and breaks free from its shackled confines.

Lacey looks radiant for a moment, and then frowns theatrically. A hassled Peacekeeper marches onto the stage and whispers something inaudibly into her ear. Apparently, he has brought bad news, because a shadow passes over her glittering eyes like a veil. In an instant Lacey is bright and bubbly once again, speaking confidently into the microphone.

“I am terribly sorry for the hold up, everyone, but Miss Leare won’t be joining us today. She has passed away, quite heroically I might say, from an infection early this morning. Therefore, a replacement tribute has to be chosen.”

My meticulously crafted mask shatters, and I gape in horror at the podium. The crowd lets out a pitiful cry, inhumane in its distorted glory. Lacey only beams, plucks another slip out from the ball and declares.

“Let’s welcome to the stage as our new tribute… Charaide Maxwell!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a response to a friend's dare. Characters are inspired and loosely based on my friends in real life. Reviews are appreciated and welcomed.


	2. Chapter 2

A million thoughts go off in my head at once. The one that screams the loudest, however, is chanting “not fair, not fair”. The most primal part of me is currently in hysterics, but beneath the chaos, there is also a sliver of something strangely determined, as if it’s been preparing for this its whole life.

In a sense, perhaps, it has.

In a fit, I glance upwards frantically, but the sun’s glare is too bright for my eyes, and I lower my gaze, uncertain how to react. My name is but a vague marker of my identity, and no one except my family recognises it from the get go. In my mind, I replay previous games, reapings of victors and faceless tributes flitting by alike.

There is only one that I force myself to stop at, and suddenly, I know what to do.

“Help me up. Please.”

My voice tapers off into a shaky whisper, and I reach out fumblingly with both hands, as if looking for support. The girl next to me hesitates, but when I brush her shoulder and pretend to recoil at the contact, grasps me grudgingly by my elbow and tows me after her towards the stage. She has to pick her way through the thick of the crowd, and I bump into a few people along the way for good measure, muttering hushed apologies under my breath.

Whispers rise around me, blanketing the background with incessant chatter. In them, I hear confusion. Befuddlement.

Unrest.

The girl's harried pace takes us to the front of the procession in only a matter of seconds. From the sides, Peacekeepers rush towards us, sweeping children away with a swish of their white, gloved hands. One grips my upper arm and hauls me up the steps to the raised podium. Once on top, I trip, overbalance, and topple back down to the ground, landing in an unceremonious heap.

The astonished gasps that permeate the air are worth every ounce of pain my careful fall had caused me.

"Oh my!" – titters Lacey. "Our tribute seems to be having a hard time!"

I scramble fearfully to my feet, but don’t show any intention of moving from my current spot. Instead I swing my head back and forth uncertainly before turning it downwards. My hair forms a curtain that hides my tears from view, and I wait for the tremulous quivering of my body to draw attention.

Lacey does not disappoint.

“Poor girl!” – she coos, click-clacking down from the tall platform. “Come, come. Let me help you up.”

Lacey is far more gentle than I expected her to be, and when she clasps her manicured fingers around my own and leads me slowly up the steps, I follow her without a moment’s hesitation.

I tell myself it’s not her warmth that reassures me, only her blind belief, but no matter how much I try, the results remain futile. I can only lie to others.

Not myself.

Once I’m situated firmly on her right, Lacey launches back into speech. “Well, that was a real adventure! Tell me, dear,” – she probes, brandishing her microphone at me. “Do you have problems with your eyesight?”

I let my hands roam for a while, bumping the microphone and eliciting a screeching noise that leaves half the audience covering their ears. I cringe while Lacey thrusts the offending device into my unresponsive fingers, bringing it cautiously to my mouth.

“Yes-s-s.” – I stutter out, the words limp and frightened on my lips. “I had-d an accident as a ch-child, and now I’m-m b-b-lind.”

Murmurs wash over me, and I take comfort in the fact that my voice wavers just enough to make the pain seem genuine.

Lacey chooses the exact same instant to envelop me in a soul-crushing hug.

“What an inspirational girl!” – she says, addressing the crowd even though she still has her chin pressed to the top of my head. “Let’s give her a round of applause, now, shall we?”

No one claps, and it’s so silent that you can hear the quiet buzzing of electricity powering the enormous screen behind us. Lacey gazes genially down at the people of District 7, and when she sees that her demand has gone unnoticed, clears her throat and walks briskly towards the second glass sphere.

“Our male tribute this year,” – Lacey croons, holding a slip up high in the air, “is Harper Melley!”

A dark-skinned boy extricates himself from the masses and ambles towards us. He seems older, his stature lean and his face weather-hardened, and even though I avert my eyes to the ground, I can see that he is no pampered town boy. There is a toughness to his gait, a latent confidence that seeps through the seams of his being without appearing too overwhelming, and it screams of strength, and worse, intelligence. I supress a tired sigh.

Only one round in the Games, and the odds are already stacking up against me.

Harper vaults gracefully onto the stage, not bothering with propriety, and takes his place on Lacey’s left. It’s a move designed to awe, bold and rebellious at the same time, and helps mark him as somewhat of an anomaly. I make a mental note to not underestimate him later in the Games.

Those in the zone so early on in the competition are always dangerous.

Mayor Greensley starts reading the Treaty of Treason, and I bring my hand up to my face, biting at the nails timidly. I store the nervous tic somewhere in the recesses of my brain, knowing I will have to bring it back in the near future. Then the speech finishes, and Lacey steers my hand towards Harper’s, nudging me to shake it. The calluses on his palm are not unexpected, and I slacken my hold until he’s the only one still going through the motions.

The interaction only takes a second, but by the time it ends, my worries have grown tenfold.

From hidden speakers, Panem’s anthem plays. I bow, as is customary, but make sure to face the completely wrong direction. And as the music engulfs the town square, I feel the gears in my head shift until they spell a single phrase.

Game on.

* * *

 

As soon as the last note rings out across the platform, I’m manhandled roughly into the Justice Building. I shuffle my feet awkwardly, and slow us down so much that a Peacekeeper ends up carrying me into a room and locking me in it. Once he’s gone, I peer curiously at the its interior. The furniture here is hand-carved in pictures I can only ever dream of seeing, and the plush couch I’m sitting on sinks marvellously underneath my meagre weight.

The doors to my suite open, and my family rushes in at once, terror stamped all over their frantic expressions. I wait until I hear the click of the lock, then motion for them to quiet down while I prepare my speech.

“I’m okay,” – I say softly, not knowing how else to begin. “I’m fine. I haven’t poked my eyes out just yet, so don’t worry about that.” At Scarlett’s furrowed brows, I hasten to clarify. “It’s an act, see? So they don’t think I’m worth their time, or better yet, forget I even exist.”

My father just nods, understanding, while my mother throws her arms around me and pulls me into her chest. “I was so, so scared, Charaide, do you hear me? I thought you hurt yourself for sure! Oh, Charaide, how did you even get it into your head to fool people like this?”

“Well,” – I smile sheepishly. “My freaky eyes, for one. And Johanna Mason. I watch her Games in class all the time. It’s supposed to educational, but I just find it gruesome.”

Starlett wiggles in between mother’s arms and hugs me as well. “You’re so smart, Charaide! And so fast, too. Please. Can you win? And come back?”

I stare sadly at her, trying to convey the truth. Starlett deflates like a popped balloon. “Oh.”

“Charaide.” – my father says, and I turn to watch him, mouth agape. He’s a man of few words, and to hear him speak with such reverence is startling, even for me. “No matter what you do in there, remember that we will always be proud of you. We know the Games won’t be easy on you, but we will pray for you anyway.”

“And that’s not all we’ll do.” – interrupts mother, digging into her pockets. “Here. Take this. Tributes are allowed tokens, aren’t they?”

I clutch at the gold chain mother has thrust into my hands, not daring to believe my eyes. “This… This looks so expensive, Mom! Why are you giving this to me? Surely you can sell this somewhere!”

“It’s an heirloom, sweetheart. Not for sale.” – says father, and I clamp my mouth shut. “Look again.”

I obey soundlessly, and glimpse a small, star-shaped pendant glimmering in the lamplight. The edges are sharp and clean, the pendant exquisite in its simple beauty. My breath catches in my throat. Painfully so.

“This was passed down a long line of our ancestors.” – my mother explains, voice small. “It’s a symbol of hope, Charaide, like the North Star which used to guide people in their worldly travels. You remember the North Star, don’t you?”

I nod numbly, my mother’s fairy tales flashing through my mind like drawings in a flipbook. The necklace suddenly seems more precious, as if it wasn’t worth cherishing just minutes ago.

Father continues where mother left off. “Our grandparents, and great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents, kept this to stop them from falling into despair. This star gave them a dream to work towards.” He swallows thickly, then says: “The dream of a happier life for their children.”

Mother’s eyes have filled with tears. “And you will keep this star with you. To look at, and let it fill you with hope of a reunion with us. Let it guide you back to us. Please, sweetheart. To us.”

“Come home.” – pleads Starlett, and I feel tears well up in my eyes as well.

“I’ll try.” – I whisper. “But I can’t promise anything. I’m sorry.”

A single tear slides down my cheek, but I don’t brush it away. It is one of the only genuine things in my life, and I don’t want it to disappear too.

“And that’s enough.” – father says, and joins mother in our family hug. “I love you, Charaide.”

“I love you too.” – mother tells me, kissing my forehead.

“Me three.” – Starlett breathes against my neck.

“Be safe.” – mother and father exhale at the same time, and Starlett nuzzles further into my hair. I grip them as hard as I possibly can, allowing another tear to drop onto the velvet of the couch.

“I love you too. Don’t forget me. I’m so, so sorry.”

* * *

 

Only after a Peacekeeper has finally forced my family to leave do I realise that I haven’t said the most important thing of all, and now I’m left with the hollow sound of it reverberating against the walls.

_Goodbye._


End file.
